


Three In The Morning

by TurnTechTimaeus



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:45:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 8,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6437830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurnTechTimaeus/pseuds/TurnTechTimaeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started off as something I wrote at three in the morning while I was unable to sleep and then snowballed into this. I'll update whenever I write something new for this which will probably be quite often at this rate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Her I

It’s three in the morning and she can’t sleep, the headache’s long since subsided and she watches the stars wondering whether her friends can see them too. Messages will go unread until the sun comes up, she’s too busy picturing what the galaxies look like and exoplanets too, she wonders if the photos do it all justice or if they’re even more brilliant to view with her own eyes.

It’s four in the morning and she’s stopped stargazing and is now musing on past lovers, could anything have been different? Probably not, they are past lovers for a reason be it out of their control or because the fighting became unbearable. It’s all the same to her.  
It’s five in the morning and finally she responds to messages before drifting to sleep, the nightmares will stay away for now and her friends will know she’s okay when they wake. She misses her most recent lover and the stories they told, but that’s okay she’ll find another.

The cycle repeats most nights, sometimes with the headache and sometimes without. She loves the dark night sky and the way the stars glisten like fairy lights. She loves the dark and clouded over sky where the rain hits her window and lulls her to sleep. She loves the brilliant sunrise, when she’s awake to see it. But she’ll always love the sky at 3am the most.


	2. Him I

It’s three in the morning and he lies awake wanting to dream of anything other than her. She’s always there at the edge of his mind and it feels like he can’t reach her. She’s a comforting thought, the same way a blanket or a stuffed toy comforts a child. But it feels like cannot go on, she’s like the sun and he is the moon. They are so different and yet he loves her.

It’s four in the morning and he watches the ceiling inventing stories of how the cracks came to be. Some of them he imagines are cracks across space and time caused by butterflies others are fractures in relationships caused by fights, cheating, anything. Most though are threads, he decides, pulling people together mending hearts and minds.

It’s five in the morning and he’s exhausted his music collection and checks his phone more often than necessary. She’s asleep he knows this but she’ll receive a text, to show he cares. They’ve had conversations all night before about a multitude of things and he misses that. Some nights he craves those conversations again and other nights he appreciates the way their relationship has developed. 

It’s like this most nights. He hopes, he dreams, he imagines and he loves. But like her and her fascination with the 3am sky he has a fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories he can invent about them.


	3. Them I

It’s three in the morning and they’re untangling themselves from their bedsheets, another night another nightmare. They pace the room for a time trying to calm down and once they do it’s off to the bathroom, for a glass of water and to splash their face. This has been their three in the morning routine for a while. They check their phone, she’s text them but they don’t reply. They know she’s alright and that’s enough. 

It’s four in the morning and they’re huddled under their covers again, with a book this time, the spine is broken and the book well-loved. It’s the quiet after the nightmares and the distraction the book provides that brings them back to it time and time again. They can recite entire passages but that doesn’t matter to them, it’s comforting. 

It’s five in the morning and the book has been set aside and they lay on their side, staring at the wall until they begin to drift off. The dreams are pleasant now, as they often are after reading. Sometimes they hear their neighbour’s morning routines as they begin to drift off, sometimes it’s the tuning of a guitar or the sound of the wardrobes opening and closing and the accompanying voices. They’re asleep by sunrise and not even the sun will wake them.

It’s a cycle that repeats every night, as with her fascination with the 3am sky and his fascination with the cracks in his ceiling and the stories they can tell they have a fascination with the book they read at four am every morning, from the way it’s written to the story it tells they never tire.


	4. A Couple I

It’s three in the morning and they’re wandering the streets. Someone would say they’re night-owls they’d tell you it was the only time peaceful enough for them to talk to one another and think. It’s bitter out, and they’re clutching one another’s hands through knitted gloves. Their cheeks are red from the cold but still they chatter excitedly about a multitude of things as if it’s their first time talking. 

It’s four in the morning, they’re sat in a park now, swinging their legs and kicking away any of the autumnal leaves that surround them and enjoying the crinkling sound. Even in the dim light they can see each other’s grins and the flush in one another’s cheeks from the cold.

It’s five in the morning and they’re heading home, to a mug of hot chocolate for one and a cup of tea for the other. Then they’ll crawl into bed for a few hours, safe in the fact that they have one another for comfort and warmth. Hands clasped and tingling from the rush of warmth, that’s how they live their lives. 

It’s a cycle they repeat nightly, talking as if they haven’t in years, crinkling through leaves or running through the streets laughter filling the air. As with her fascination with the 3am sky, his with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, this couple has a fascination with one another, some would say love in its purest most innocent form.


	5. Them II

It’s three in the morning, they’re stood under the warm spray of the shower musing. They’ve been struggling to find the words for their poem, drawing a blank where there should be colourful words and metaphors pouring onto the page in blue ink. Their muse is long since gone and the coffee they’d brewed has gone cold and truthfully they’ve not got the heart to throw it away.

It’s four in the morning and they’re hunched over their desk, a small lamp illuminating their workspace and blue in splotches across the paper. The words flow a little easier now but they’re tinged with sadness where there should be happiness. The coffee is still there and still cold. A thesaurus sits open, they’ve been looking up words for this poem and trying to fit them in gracefully. 

It’s five in the morning and the poem is finished. They’ll wash the ink from their hands and check their messages. The desk is a strewn mess of ink cartridges and papers but that can wait until the sun flickers in and wakes them. For now it’s done. The coffee sits there still in its cup and still cold. Their muse will come by in a few hours, read their poem and give a fond smile before shaking their head at the mess and cleaning it up and brewing fresh coffee.

It’s a cycle that repeats most weeks. As with her fascination with the 3am sky, his with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and the couple with a fascination with one another, they have a fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells and with words and muses and the feelings that they can convey.


	6. Her II

It’s three in the morning and she studies his face in the dim light. She doesn’t need to, not really she knows it well. It is times like these that she sometimes thinks back to how they met or their first date. The sweet things. More often than not though she wishes she could just sleep, she’s always had difficulty. She gets up, careful not to disturb him and seats herself on the window ledge, it’s cloudy out tonight but she doesn’t need to see the stars though, she can picture it all from the sleepless nights she’s had alone. 

It’s four in the morning and she’s in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, she’s watching the patterns the steam makes and for now she’s content. She’ll sleep eventually but for now she listens to the patter of rain on the window and the buzzing of the fridge. 

It’s five in the morning and she’s back in bed, safe in his embrace, she wonders if she woke him at all but pushes it quickly to the back of her mind. Her phone lights up, it’s a message from them, letting her know about a meteor shower next week, she’ll check it in a few hours. For now she’ll sleep.

It’s a cycle that repeats whenever he’s there and it’s not his fault she can’t sleep. As with his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell, their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells and with words and muses and the couple with a fascination with one another, she has a fascination with the 3am sky and the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea.


	7. Him II

It’s three in the morning and he hears her move from the bed, carefully he cracks and eye open and watches as she seats herself on the window ledge and watches the 3am sky. In the streetlight that filters in through the window she looks like an angel and in that moment he’s sure he loves her. He’s aware she doesn’t sleep much but knows she’ll be back in bed soon. He shifts to his back and imagines the cracks telling stories as he often does.

It’s four in the morning and her side of the bed is still empty, he muses on how he once thought her unobtainable but realises quickly that he had been wrong all along. She’d been right there with him. He goes to the bathroom quietly and splashes his face before going back to bed and watching the shadows of thing passing by in the street below, it’s comforting, a reminder he’s not completely alone even in the quiet of the night.

It’s five in the morning and he’s dozing when she crawls into bed. Unconsciously his arm slips around her and for now he’s content. He’s asleep before her phone screen lights up and he won’t wake until he hears the bird song two hours later.

It’s a cycle that repeats whenever she’s here and it provides him with some comfort. As with her fascination with the 3am sky and the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells and with words and muses and the couple with a fascination with one another, he has a fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am.


	8. A Couple II

It’s three in the morning and they run through the streets, hands clasped and laughter filling the air. There’s snow on the ground and their shoes make satisfying crunches. Cars pass by the gleeful couple as they laugh and talk while they run, noses red and fingers numb from the cold. For now though everything is right with the world, how long have they been doing this?

It’s four in the morning and they’ve come to a stop. It’s snowing and the flakes stick and melt in their hair and clothes as they hug and smile at one another. It’s moments like these that bring them closer, they decide although it’s never voiced. It’s the small things that mean something.

It’s five in the morning and they’re heading home, to a mug of hot chocolate for one and a cup of tea for the other. They sit with their hands clasped around their respective mugs and a blanket thrown over them while their clothes dry on the radiators. They watch the snow as it swirls down and coats the ground in a thick white blanket muting the cars as they pass by. 

It’s a cycle that repeats nightly. As with her fascination with the 3am sky and the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells and with words and muses his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, this couple has a fascination with one another and patterns the snow makes as it falls.


	9. Her III

It’s three in the morning and she watches the muted TV playing the news. She’s stretched across the sofa, a blanket wrapped around her. He slumbers next to her. They’d watched a film and fell asleep during it, it’s moments like these she wonders why she waited so long.

It’s four in the morning and she’s gone to their bed. She splashes cool water across her face to combat the humid summer air and lies on top of the thick duvet. Her phone shows no messages. She grabs a piece of paper and begins to fold it into a swan, just like she used to years ago. 

It’s five in the morning, she’s made several swans now and has lined them up on the windowsill, like a family she supposed. Finally she collapses onto their bed, the room warm and sticky, for the final time that night and sleeps, when she wakes he’ll be there next to her and they’ll get breakfast or they’ll stay in bed for several more hours. But for now she’ll sleep.

It’s a cycle that rarely repeats. As with their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells and with words and muses his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, the couple with a fascination with one another and patterns the snow makes as it falls, she has a fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea and the monotony of making origami swans.


	10. Them III

It’s three in the morning and they wake with a start. There’s ink smeared across their face and they’re drenched in sweat. They’d fallen asleep at their desk and the poems and stories they were working on are strewn around. They trudge to the bathroom and stand under the warm spray, the water runs blue and they catch a glimpse of the bracelet their muse left. 

It’s four in the morning and they’re reading the well-loved book, the thesaurus sits open and the papers are organised. The bracelet sits on the table next to a cold cup of coffee. They’ll return it tomorrow. A lamp offers a small amount of light illuminating the ink splotches on the desk from the times they’ve spilt ink. Sometimes they find themselves turning the ink splotches into characters and get so caught up in it that they forget the book. 

It’s five in the morning and they’re tangled in their bedsheets typing out an email to their muse informing them of their progress. They sleep better now, when they do sleep, their muse suggested they write poems and stories about what they love. They’d been doing that anyway but having someone to inspire their work has helped in an unbelievable way.

It’s a cycle that repeats most nights now. As with her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea and the monotony of making origami swans, his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am and the couple with a fascination with one another and patterns the snow makes as it falls, they have a fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create from that.


	11. Him III

It’s three in the morning and he’s alone in his bed, house and head. She’s left for the night, something about having to check up on a scatter-brained friend in the morning. He remembers how they’d danced in the kitchen to a slow song that had come on the radio. He watches the cracks in his ceiling, they tell happier stories now.

It’s four in the morning and he’s put his playlist on, the bed is cold despite the humidity of the room. He’s used to having her there. He’s restless and finally accepts that laying in his bed won’t help, grabs a blanket and goes to the sofa.

It’s five in the morning and he’s watching the sunrise. He loves the way the sky starts off a deep red and then lightens into shades of orange, yellow, a small amount of green – just for a moment and then finally a pale blue which will darken to the hue he loves so dearly. He wonders if she’s watching the sunrise too, the same way she watches the stars at night, he clasps his mug of coffee tightly and listens to the low buzz of the fridge. 

It’s a cycle that occurs whenever he’s alone. As with her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea and the monotony of making origami swans, the couple with a fascination with one another and patterns the snow makes as it falls and their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create from that, he has a fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am and the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour.


	12. A Couple III

It’s three in the morning and they’re walking through the park, exhausted from having ran there. The lights illuminate the daffodils that’ve started growing, their hands are clasped and they smile at one another, still fascinated after all this time. It’s warm out and even though they can’t hear the birds yet they know that they’ll hear them come morning. 

It’s four in the morning and they’re skimming stones in the pond, the winter chill has faded and the stones are cool to the touch rather than bitterly cold. They help one another perfect their techniques and find the smoothest stone. One of them sneaks a pure black pebble into their pocket to remember this night by, the other picks some flowers in order to dry an press them. 

It’s five in the morning and they’re running home, all laughter and smiles, like school children. When they’re inside they’ll fix a mug of hot chocolate and a cup of tea as they always have and then they’ll make their way to bed, hands clasped and smiles lighting up their faces, as it’s always been.

It’s a cycle that occurs nightly. As with her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea and the monotony of making origami swans, their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create from that and his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am and the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour, the couple have a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring.


	13. Them IV

It’s three in the morning. Their muse has been and gone, the window’s open and the sound of laughter and running feet drifts up from the street below. The smell of petrichor lingers in the air and the words flow almost effortlessly tonight. A cold cup of coffee sits beside the ink cartridges. Their muse remembered the bracelet this time. There are roses on the windowsill, a thank you gift for the poem they wrote and their scent mixes with the petrichor wonderfully. 

It’s four in the morning, the book is open, but they’re not paying attention to the words, there’s no real need to, they can recite the words effortlessly. It’s raining and the patterns the raindrops form and the pleasant smell that accompanies it has their full attention. They hope for a storm but it’s much too early in the year for one to occur. The coffee is still cold. 

It’s five in the morning and they’re reviewing the work they’ve done, there are smears of ink across the pages, but they can still discern the words. It’s still raining. The sound is comforting to them and it lulls them gently to sleep, as it did when they were younger. The pages fall to the floor from the duvet as they shift. The coffee still sits in its cup, as it does most nights. They will wake when the sun rises this morning. 

It’s a cycle that occurs each night now. As with her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea and the monotony of making origami swans, his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am and the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour and the couple with a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring, they have a fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create and the smell of petrichor and roses.


	14. Her IV.

It’s three in the morning, it feels odd to her to be in her own home but she’d promised them she’d check up on them. She knows that there will be cold coffee and ink smudged everywhere. She has the poem they wrote tacked to her fridge, she’d given them roses as thanks. She’s curled up on the sofa with popcorn watching a movie she’s seen a thousand times but it elicits the same response each time. Outside a cat meows. 

It’s four in the morning and she wakes with a crick in her neck and static on the screen. At some point she’d dozed off. It’s raining outside and the sound comforts her, a glance rewards her with the sight of the stars she loves through a break in the clouds. She stands slowly to avoid any dizziness and decants the popcorn into the bin, grabs a glass of water and heads upstairs. The rain stops. 

It’s five in the morning and she’s wrapped in a blanket watching the sunrise, it’s always more beautiful to see it reflect off the droplets, the spider-web outside her window glistens and she admires the way the water droplets hang off it and glisten like tiny crystals, while the spider sits in the middle, like a black hole in the centre of a galaxy. The sky’s a brilliant red, there’s a saying about that she thinks idly. She wonders if he’s watching it too or if the early morning sun has woken them from their slumber. 

It’s a cycle that repeats whenever she’s home alone. As with his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am and the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour and the couple with a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring and their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create and the smell of petrichor and roses, she has a fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, the monotony of making origami swans and the way water droplets rest on the spider-web outside her window.


	15. Him IV

It’s three in the morning and he watches the cracks as he always does. There’s no rain tonight and the room is unbearably warm. Her side of the bed is empty but her bracelet and various other items sit neatly on the dresser next to it. His phone lights up. It’s her, letting him know she’s okay and that he should really watch this meteor shower because it’s beautiful. He chuckles at that and muses that he has everything he could’ve wished for in this moment. 

It’s four in the morning and he finds himself sat on the windowsill, the same way she does, watching the meteors as they streak through the sky, he’s reminded briefly of a sadder time but refuses to dwell on it, why should he? He’s happy. He can hear laughter and talking from the streets below. 

It’s five in the morning and he finds himself in his kitchen, a cup of tea sits before him and a poem written in blue ink, which has been smudged, in his hands. She’d presented it to him a few nights prior and he’d been too exhausted to view it at the time. He can tell it’s not written by her hand, the writing’s cursive not blocky but whoever wrote it has heeded her advice and tailored it to him perfectly. He’ll have to ask her to thank the writer but for now he folds it up and places it back in the envelope it came it.

It isn’t part of his normal cycle when she’s not around but it doesn’t matter to him. As with the couple with a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring and their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create and the smell of petrichor and roses and her with her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, the monotony of making origami swans and the way water droplets rest on the spider-web outside her window, he has a fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour and the meteors that occasionally pass by.


	16. A Couple IV

It’s three in the morning and they’re lying on the dry grass in the park, it is warm enough for them to wear short sleeves and as always their hands are clasped and one of them is motioning manically with their free hands to the clouds, telling the other stories about the things they see in them. The other listens intently, it feels like no time has passed since they started dating. The dry grass is itchy but neither of them care. Their clothes will be covered in it after this but honestly it’s worth being able to spend time with one another

It’s four in the morning and they’re skimming rocks in the pond again, it’s peaceful and every now and again they’ll smile at one another or sit and have a conversation. They both enjoy these moments where it’s quiet and they can just enjoy one another’s company. Sometimes they fought, as most couples did but they always smoothed it over and made sure that it didn’t interfere with these moments.

It’s five in the morning, dew is beginning form on the grass they’re inside now with a glass of iced tea for one and orange juice for the other. It’s too warm for hot drinks, though that goes unvoiced. They’ve changed into clean clothes and watch the sunrise, happy that they can watch it. In the garden strawberries are the main centre piece, a vibrant red to offset the whites, lilacs, oranges, pinks and blues of the other flowers one of them tends to.

It’s a cycle they repeat nightly. As with their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create and the smell of petrichor and roses and her with her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, the monotony of making origami swans and the way water droplets rest on the spider-web outside her window and him with his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour and the meteors that occasionally pass by, the couple has a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring and the stories they can create from the clouds and the vibrant colours of the flowers they grow.


	17. Them V

It’s three in the morning and music blocks out any other sounds that could scare them. They’re watching themselves in the mirror, breathing slowly and deeply. Another night, another nightmare. They’ve been unable to do any work recently, the words are stunted. It’s like someone’s filled their head with lead. The coffee’s long since gone cold in its cup. The room is warm but the cold sweat coating their skin prevents them from feeling that and the nausea prevents them from moving. Dear Gods it’s three in the morning and they can’t sleep. The words won’t come and morning seems so far away. 

It’s four in the morning and they’ve just managed to pour the coffee down the ensuite sink lest their muse do it for them. Rose petals litter the window sill, papers litter the floor, as do clothes. They get so enthralled with writing that they never quite realise they’re slipping. The words their muse wrote for them a while back are prominent on their noticeboard now, even in the dim light they can make out the writing. Their phone shows no new messages. They haven’t touched their favourite book, they’ve not the heart. 

It’s five in the morning and they begin to pen something. At first it doesn’t make much sense, they hardly read it. They don’t want to. But slowly they do and even though they’ll never share it with anyone it’s out now and their chest feels a little lighter, in time the words will flow better, they always do, but for now they’re where they were at the start, wondering if their words will ruin it. A little bit of a mess, held together by the words they write and their friends love. 

This isn’t part of the cycle. This is what happens when it breaks down and not even their love of books, words, muses or the smell of petrichor and roses can help tonight. But give it time and the words will flow, the coffee will go cold and ink will be smudged across the pages again because that’s what always happens, they rely on a routine.


	18. Her V

It’s three in the morning and she’s sprawled out next to him, both wide awake and talking in hushed tones. She’s telling him the stories she creates from the cracks in his ceiling and the patterns she sees in the stars. She’s aware that this is unusual for the both of them, they rarely talk at this hour, both feeling that it should be used for other things be it watching the stars, sleeping or listening to music but tonight she wants to talk, wants to tell stories, the same way an old lover used to tell her stories, before things went sour. She doesn’t think about that though, just keeps talking and gesturing animatedly.

It’s four in the morning and he sleeps while she whispers secrets he’ll never know. She’s never realised how comfortable she is next to him. But as always she’s drawn to the window, it is overcast but the moon is visible, it’s a full moon and its light is enough to illuminate the street. She watches as a young couple walks, hand in hand despite the cold, their laughter echoing through the otherwise empty street and causing their breath to become steam when it hits the cold air. She’s barely paying attention to the couple now though, too busy watching the wisps float lazily upwards, the same way smoke from a cigarette curls lazily around or the way a scarf might float down a slow moving river. 

It’s five in the morning and she’s back in bed, lying next to him. It’s been different tonight and she likes that. She likes telling him stories and hearing his in return. As she drifts off she thinks she hears the radio crackle to life, playing a song likes. She goes to sleep with a smile on her face.

There isn’t really a cycle anymore. From this point she tells him stories till he sleeps and alternates between her fears and her secrets once he’s asleep, sometimes she’ll watch the stars or the street below, in case the couple walk by, filling her with a warm feeling because everyone deserves to be that happy.


	19. Him V

It’s three in the morning and he’s on the phone to her, listening to her describe the city she’s in. From her descriptions he can picture the lights, hustle and bustle and the noise of the city. He’s a world away but feels as if he’s by her side. He’s sat on his sofa, controller in hand, phone awkward between his ear and shoulder and the screen displaying his favourite game. It’s been a while since he played and she usually sits next to him, sometimes she watches other times she’s helping her friend with their work. 

It’s four in the morning and she’s long since hung up and gone to sleep, his TV shows the blue screen indicative of his console being turned off, he’ll sleep here tonight, too tired to move to his bed. His house feels too quiet. He starts his playlist. It’s just loud enough that the silence has been broken but not loud enough so as to disrupt any sleep he might get. He grabs a blanket and drifts off.

It’s five in the morning and he wakes to the sound of thunder and rain lashing against the window. Where there should be a brilliant sunrise there is black clouds and flashes of lightning that illuminate the largely empty street. He moves into the kitchen now completely awake, there’s a manuscript that she’d been reading, for a friend, sat on the table. It’s written in the same cursive handwriting the poem was and he wonders briefly how long it must’ve taken as he turns the kettle on to brew a cup of tea. The music still plays. 

It’s become a cycle when she’s not here, to talk to her, play videogames and then fall asleep on the sofa. It’s one he’s come to enjoy though he prefers it when she’s there next to him, even if she’s just reading or watching the stars it’s comforting to have her there.


	20. Them VI

It’s three in the morning and they’re writing when they should be sleeping, as per usual. The roses on the sill have been replaced and the dead petals cleaned up, they’re pink roses where the others were yellow. They’ve been working on this piece for four days now and countless cups of coffee have been poured down the sink, their work will be sent to their muse once it’s done, it always is, as if to say ‘look how you’ve inspired me I’m so very grateful’. The cold cup of coffee is absent tonight and a glance at the sky shows dark clouds with the promise of rain. They open their window. 

It’s four in the morning and the room is all the cooler for the open window, they’ve stacked the papers as meticulously as they can and the pen goes next to them. The well-loved book makes its first appearance in weeks and it feels like they never stopped reading, although the lettering on the spine is barely legible for all the breaks in it. The words are still stunted, they’ve tried writing countless soliloquys on the matter but no words come to mind, it is hell being stuck in this constant state of never knowing but for now they’re enthralled by the book and its flowery language. 

It’s five in the morning and the rain falls in a vast amount and petrichor fills the air, shortly thereafter it’s joined by the loud grumbles of thunder and the brilliant flashes of lightning, they’ve placed the book aside intent on watching the storm as it progresses. The smell of ozone is present now too and it mixes with the petrichor and the smell of roses and they’re happy. They’ve been doing better, it’s the little things that help and maybe one day they’ll walk through the streets late at night, as they used to, they never went alone though, they dislike the city at night and their friends always tell them not to, even though they rarely leave their room these days. 

Everything’s falling back into place, the cycle is starting again and if they listen closely they’ll hear the music they love even above the sounds of the thunder. As with her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, the monotony of making origami swans and the way water droplets rest on the spider-web outside her window and him with his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour and the meteors that occasionally pass by, the couple has a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring and the stories they can create from the clouds and the vibrant colours of the flowers they grow, they have fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create, the smell of petrichor and roses and storms.


	21. Him VI

It’s three in the morning and he’s working on this report, he’s been working on it for days and she’s been unable to help, it’s not her area of expertise. He’s frustrated and tired. His eyes are beginning to close and he decides that’s enough for tonight and he needs to get to bed before his head slams onto his laptop keyboard and the report becomes gibberish that he’ll have to delete in the morning.

It’s four in the morning and he’s lying in bed with her next to him and watching a small spider crawl across his ceiling. How it got there he doesn’t know, but as long as it stays up there, as far away from him as possible then he’s okay with it. The cracks tell the same stories they always do and there’s no sign of a storm tonight. He hopes, he dreams, he loves. As he always has.

It’s five in the morning and he’s sleeping as if nothing could wake him. His dreams are populated with memories of their time together. Some of them are bright and happy, overly saturated technicolour and no matter the arguments they have nothing can tarnish them. Others are less bright and it’s those dreams he dislikes with a passion, he’s kind and he’s gentle but some nights when she thinks he’s asleep he hears the secrets she whispers and it breaks his heart to know he couldn’t help her.

It’s a rare cycle but as with her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, the monotony of making origami swans and the way water droplets rest on the spider-web outside her window, the couple has a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring and the stories they can create from the clouds and the vibrant colours of the flowers they grow, their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create, the smell of petrichor and roses and storms, he has a fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour, the meteors that occasionally pass by and the way his dreams are almost always in brilliant technicolour.


	22. Her VI

It’s three in the morning and she’s lying in her back garden, wrapped in a thick blanket. One of her friends told her that tonight would be a good night and that 3am would probably be best because it’s an annual meteor shower and if she’s lucky she’ll see several meteors a minute and make several wishes.

It’s four in the morning and meteors streak across the sky and she’s reminded of Peter Pan and the way fairy dust leaves a trail in the air. She’s making wishes a mile a minute, including and not limited to hoping he reciprocates and wishing to see the stars up close. It’s a new moon tonight and she can see every meteor as it streaks across the sky, bright and beautiful before fading away before another one takes its place. She’s glad she’s watching it.

It’s five in the morning and she’s inside now, with a hot water bottle to warm her a bit and her phone screens been lighting up with photo messages and poems from them. She’ll ignore them until she wakes later, she’s too tired to reply now. She’ll sleep, hoping all those wishes she made come true, even if wish making is childish, she’s content. 

It’s a cycle that occurs with every meteor shower. As with the couple that has a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring and the stories they can create from the clouds and the vibrant colours of the flowers they grow, their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create, the smell of petrichor and roses and storms and his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour, the meteors that occasionally pass by and the way his dreams are almost always in brilliant technicolour, she has a fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, the monotony of making origami swans, the way water droplets rest on the spider-web outside her window and the way meteors streak through the sky.


	23. Them VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I might leave this for a bit, I'm working on some other stuff which is in a similar vein to this, I've not got a muse at the moment and it's getting a little hard to write this as truthfully I'm unsure where I draw the line and say this is finished. Thank you.

It’s three in the morning and their pen’s discarded on the desk and they’re on the floor. They’re aware they’re safe they know that but the fears wrapped round them like a blanket and they can’t breathe and their chest is caving in and oh god please let it stop. They’re tired of this. Tired of the nightmares and the anxiety that plagues them like a curse. Councillors have tried to help, breathing techniques, grounding techniques anything that might stop the panic in its tracks but it’s like trying to stop a runaway train, it doesn’t happen and it burns through them like a wildfire. It’s ironic they think, love is usually the feeling people say burns like a wildfire.

It’s four in the morning and they’ve crawled into bed, too exhausted and light-headed to read, they miss having someone next to them, not that they’d wake them for something like this, it’s their own issue and they can handle it. That’s what the writing’s for. To help, that’s what the councillors were for, they were told by the first one that what happened to them was their fault, they’d come out crying and gone to another one, who couldn’t help – they were too distrustful. The third one was nice and helpful and they’re grateful because as they lie there as the sun begins to rise they breathe in deep and slow.

It’s five in the morning and they’re watching the sunrise as if it were a movie and it’s beautiful but they can’t find the words for it. There’s a river of ink on the desk now, that pulls their attention, it’s dripping onto the floor and they like the sound it’s satisfying. 

It’s a rare cycle, it happens every few months at the most. As with the couple that has a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring and the stories they can create from the clouds and the vibrant colours of the flowers they grow, his fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour, the meteors that occasionally pass by and the way his dreams are almost always in brilliant technicolour and her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, the monotony of making origami swans, the way water droplets rest on the spider-web outside her window and the way meteors streak through the sky, they have a fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create, the smell of petrichor and roses, storms and rivers of ink in midnight blue or coal black and the sound it makes as it hits the floor.


	24. Him VII

It’s three in the morning and he’s walking the streets, they’re completely deserted and he likes them better this way, it’s not rained for a while and the only sounds bar cars in the distance is his music blasting through his headphones and his footfalls on the concrete. The air is thick and humid like a blanket and his clothes cling to him as if he’s been swimming and the water never dries. It’s preferable though to it pouring with rain or snow though, he’d rather be indoors watching those. 

It’s four in the morning and he’s still wandering the deserted streets, the street lamps go off one by one as the sun rises slowly above the horizon painting the streets first in red, then orange and gold and he’s glad he’s awake to see it, the sky above is clear and he knows it’ll be blazingly hot and she’ll sit in the shade beneath the tree in their garden and sip homemade lemonade and he’ll be content to listen to her day and they’ll probably do some work for their respective courses and just enjoy themselves.

It’s five in the morning and he’s collapsed next to her, she fell asleep an age ago, before he left and he’s lying there in the light that’s been dimmed by the curtains beginning to drift off. There’s a fan running in the corner and the clothes he wore out are folded in the wash basket, it is cooler in here but even then it’s still warm and the air feels like syrup. Even through the curtain the sun bathes the room in a golden glow and for now he’s content. 

It’s a common cycle now. As with the couple that has a fascination with one another, patterns the snow makes as it falls and the way the water ripples as they skim stones and the delicate blooms of spring and the stories they can create from the clouds and the vibrant colours of the flowers they grow, her fascination with the 3am sky, the way steam rises from a cup of hot tea, the monotony of making origami swans, the way water droplets rest on the spider-web outside her window and the way meteors streak through the sky and their fascination with the book they read at four am every morning from the way it’s written to the story it tells, with words and muses and the ink splotches on their desk and the characters they can create, the smell of petrichor and roses, storms and rivers of ink in midnight blue or coal black and the sound it makes as it hits the floor, he has a fascination with the cracks in the ceiling and the stories they can tell and with the shadows that pass by his window at 4am, the way the sunrise resembles a brilliant watercolour, the meteors that occasionally pass by and the way his dreams are almost always in brilliant technicolour and the way the sunrise bathes the streets in summer.


	25. Her VII

It’s three in the morning and the taste of lavender lingers in her mouth. It was a nice night, relaxed and full of laughter but she’s incredibly glad to be home, wiping makeup off her face and slipping into well worn pyjamas. For once the other side of their bed is empty but the night is warm enough that it matters not.

It’s four in the morning and she’s sprawled across the covers idly reading through the latest thing they’ve sent her. It’s sad unlike their usual work and she can tell that they’ve thrown themself into it and it’s based on the things they’ve experienced. She’s glad they trust them enough to send it to her. She enjoys reading their work.

It’s five in the morning and she’s beginning to fall asleep as the sun rises, he’s on her mind which is common when he’s not there and her dreams will be pleasant until she wakes in about three hours time. As per usual she doesn’t sleep long and she’ll be drinking tea constantly for the day.


	26. Them VIII. (AKA The One About The Author)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last one guys.

It’s three in the morning and they awake with a dry mouth to the sounds of the Let’s Play they’d left on before they went to sleep. The fever’s subsided in their sleep but their pyjamas are damp with sweat and they’ll need yet another wash in the morning. But first they have business they need to attend to. They flip their phone and are blinded for a moment by the brightness and the colours though once their eyes adjust they’re scrolling through Tumblr and reblogging stuff, what can they say it’s a habit. 

It’s four in the morning and they’ve moved from Tumblr and are scrolling through the messages between themself and their partner, they make them laugh and smile and they’re optimistic about this and well they could say more but they won’t. The gist of it is their conversations are great and they laugh and smile in many, if not all of them. They think if they really tried they could scroll right back to the top, but they’ll do that another time when it’s not four in the morning and they can laugh louder lest they wake anyone.

It’s five in the morning and they’re asleep again, they’ll wake in just over three hours but they’ve slept more tonight than they have the past five days.


End file.
